My brothers are my half-brothers; they spent summers and some holidays with us. I love my brothers.
Their mother picked up after them. They were not required to take plates the kitchen or do the dishes or anything like that.
My mother, who would tell you she is for equality, came home one day, sighed at the mess of dirty dishes scattered about, and said, "Gayle, help me pick up."
"Those aren't my dishes," I said. "I picked up my dishes."
My mother sighed again. "Just help me pick up."
"No," I said again. "I didn't make that fucking mess."
She never approached my brothers and said, "Boys, in this house, you take your dishes to the kitchen." She did not tell our dad, "Hey, tell the boys they need to pick up after themselves."
It was, "Gayle, pick up the dishes."
And when I refused because it was not my fucking mess, I got lectured about being difficult.
See also: My brothers--in a classic dick-move of all siblings--figured out they could pop the lock on the bathroom door and throw it open, and I would freak out because I was in the shower and trying to get five fucking minutes of peace.
Guess who got yelled at for being "unreasonable"? Not the boys. Because a lot of moms of millennial boys still said shit like "boys will be boys" when they should have said "Boys, if you got body-slammed on the concrete, I'm not taking you to the hospital."
